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At the beginning of the year, like many of you, I made plans for the summer holidays. I was looking forward to spending some time abroad, lying on a sun lounger in my mankini with a cool gin and tonic while transforming into a bronzed Adonis.

Those plans have been well and truly scuppered by the Coronavirus and many will be disappointed at not having the opportunity to admire my tanned physique strutting around the beach but there you go. We’ll all just have to be patient for a little while longer.

In the general scheme of things, foreign holidays are a minor issue. Some have more serious things to occupy their minds like losing friends and relatives to the virus or losing their jobs. Some companies have closed their doors for good and for many more, the future is uncertain. As far as they’re concerned, holidays are the furthest thing from their minds.

There is a push though, to get the economy going again and we are being encouraged to holiday at home for what’s left of the summer to keep the money circulating locally. Staycations are the order of the day. Many do that anyway and I know lots of people who own holiday homes, caravans, and mobile homes around Ireland, and they wouldn’t dream of going anywhere else and that’s fine.

For more of us, the prospect of life in the sun is what keeps us going through the dreary winters and after everything we’ve been through over the last three months, we’re chomping at the bit to get away. I can only imagine what it must be like for all those wonderful people who soldiered on since March without a break.

If anyone deserves a holiday it’s the health service personnel, the emergency services, postal workers, and all those who provided essential services. The men and women who kept the shelves stacked in the shops and manned the tills day in and day out, risking their own health on a daily basis while the rest of us kept our heads down. They have earned some rest and recuperation but where will they get it? 

My wife has a significant birthday coming up soon and to mark the occasion, we had arranged to travel abroad for the month of July. Our flights have just been cancelled so that’s been knocked on the head. That’s OK though because for now, the fear of getting on a plane is very real. Crowded airports, security checks, mixing with other passengers in a metal tube for hours on end breathing recycled air is an issue for many travellers.

So, staycations are an option. Shops, pubs, hotels, and restaurants have suffered badly over the last few months. Some won’t re- open and for others the recovery will be slow and difficult, and we’re being encouraged to support them and while they certainly deserve our support, it shouldn’t be taken for granted either.

Newstalk radio recently conducted a poll on where people are likely to holiday this summer. Fifty-one per cent said they would holiday in Ireland. I think around thirty per cent said they would travel abroad, and the remainder said they would save their money for a decent trip away next year.

From my own discussions with people, I suspect that last option is gathering momentum. Good weather is a firm favourite with holiday makers and that’s one thing you can’t be guaranteed in this country but it’s not a deal breaker for everyone but value for money is a major factor.

Holidaying in Ireland is not, and never has been, cheap. Your average Joe and Josephine Soap expect value for money, and they’re entitled to it, but will they get it here? I chose a week in July and searched for a hotel in Killarney, Co. Kerry for two people. There were plenty of options ranging in price from €904 to €1473 and that wasn’t including breakfast.

When you add the cost of food and drinks to your hotel bill, you’ve paid a hefty price for your week away but according to the Newstalk poll, half of us are prepared to do just that. I won’t be surprised though if that changes when people start checking prices.

I looked at a foreign holiday option for two people and I picked Cyprus simply because it’s a place I’m familiar with. I used the same dates in July and settled on Larnaca. The weather there is hot at that time of the year and as Cyprus has an average of three hundred and something days of sunshine a year, you can bank on a rain free week.

I selected three hotels on the beach outside Larnaca a three star, a four star and a five star. The three star was €813 or €1113 with breakfast and dinner. The four star was €1148 and the five star was €1197 and both included breakfast.

Airbnb is another option in Larnaca with a selection of good standard accommodation ranging from between €200 and €300 per week. Your money will go a long way when eating out and alcohol is cheaper too and return flights to Paphos in July are available for under €200 per person.

The point I’m making here is that if those involved in the hotel/tourism industry expect customers to holiday at home, they have to offer value for money. The promise of a cead mile failte simply isn’t enough.

The foreign option involves travel and at the moment that may be a step too far for many and that’s where I can see a lot of soul searching but unless customers feel they are getting value for money at home, they may abandon the staycation in favour of a decent splash out abroad next year instead.

• 

I saw a programme on TV recently about a guy who had a serious problem with hoarding. He basically turned his house into a skip. There wasn’t one square inch of floor space visible and to get from one room to the other, he had to climb over piles and piles of rubbish. There were some rooms he couldn’t even get into. It was disturbing.

His bed was covered in so much rubbish that he had barely enough space to lie down on at night.  The kitchen was completely unusable, so he was surviving on fast food and the remains of the food, and the containers it arrived in, were strewn about the floors.

There were creatures living there too. The house was alive with cockroaches, flies and bluebottles and there were droppings from rodents scattered around the place. It was hard to watch.

There was a happy ending of sorts though when the house was made fit for human habitation again by a team of volunteers, supervised by professionals, who removed tons of waste and gave the place a good clean. How long it will stay like that remains to be seen.

According to the Mayo Clinic in America, a hoarding disorder is a persistent difficulty discarding or parting with possessions because of a perceived need to save them. A person with a hoarding disorder experiences distress at the thought of getting rid of the items, so excessive accumulation of items, regardless of actual value, occurs.

Hoarding often creates such cramped living conditions that homes may be filled to capacity, with only narrow pathways winding through stacks of clutter. Countertops, sinks, stoves, desks, stairways and virtually all other surfaces are usually piled with stuff. And when there’s no more room inside, the clutter may spread to the garage, vehicles, yard and other storage facilities.

Hoarding ranges in severity and in some cases, it may not have much impact on your life, while in other cases it seriously affects your functioning on a daily basis. There are five stages with five being the most severe form.

Apparently, most of us have a messy room or two. Laundry unfolded, paperwork stacked on the desk, some clutter and a bit of mess are a normal part of life and that’s OK according to the professionals. However, there is a point where the mess gets out of hand and becomes a problem and that got me thinking.

My house has stuff. I call it stuff because the term covers a multitude. Since we started our lock-down I’ve been doing some painting and I keep finding stuff. I’m constantly moving stuff out of my way and no matter where I put it, it always manages to get in my way again. It never goes away.

Some of the stuff that lies around the house is unnecessary and has outlived its usefulness. It has no specific function and most of it could be reasonably described as rubbish.

I suspect every house has stuff that belongs in a skip but has never make it that far for one reason or another. It might even be broken but sentimental value saves it from the bin. You can’t remember where it came from or how it got into the house in the first place, but it should be gone.

Instead, it’s put to one side until there is a clean-up and then it’s moved to a temporary holding station in a back room and when that room is due for a tidy up  the stuff is moved upstairs to a semi- permanent spot in the spare bedroom.

After doing its purgatory there, the stuff eventually finds a more permanent home in the attic or out in the shed where it will continue to create clutter and get in the way for the rest of your natural life.

There are a few small ceramic bowls in our kitchen that I think are used for baking, but we don’t bake much so they are really surplus to requirements. They don’t have their own designated space, so they’re kind of nomadic. They spend their time lazing around on various surfaces, so I often put them in the oven out of the way, but they always escape.

We are in a particularly dangerous phase at the moment because my late mother-in-law’s house is being readied for sale so extra stuff is appearing in our place. We recently inherited some extra drinking mugs. We have a cupboard bursting at the seams with cups and mugs, so we don’t need anymore, but still they come.

I have a small office downstairs but it’s becoming very clear that I am the only one who thinks of it as an office. Everyone else is of the opinion that it’s just a junk room which is why I share that space with a heap of coats, gear bags, tennis racquets, spare parts and other stuff.

I have a desk in there too and when I started out, there were six drawers in it. It still has six, but I have only access to one of them. The rest are full of small stuff and it’s a constant battle to retain control of my bit. I’m being squeezed out. Stage one hoarding has begun.

At stage five, individuals may not be able to live in their own home. They may also discharge waste into nontoilet receptacles and keep them in the home.

It can also include such characteristics as severe structural damage to the home, broken walls, fire hazards throughout the home, no electricity or running water, clutter on every surface, most of or the entire home becomes inaccessible.

I feel a little weakness coming on. I’m going for a lie down while I still have a bit of space on the bed.

• 

There was a time when my idea of inconvenience was getting stuck behind a slow-moving tractor on the way to meet my buddy in Ballyseedy for a coffee. Or not being able to get a seat at the counter in my local pub.

Extreme inconvenience was when visitors called to the house just as Liverpool were about to kick off on the TV with me in my recliner, beer in hand. That’s not an issue now because we have neither visitors nor football but thankfully, we’re OK for the beer.

But now, we’re all learning what inconvenience is really about. We’ve been put out before of course with a few troublesome storms. A fallen tree blocking the road was inconvenient. Being without electricity for a few hours was more inconvenient but having no access to the Internet brought inconvenience to a new level.

I was caught in an airport in Edinburgh for one of those storms and my flight was delayed for seven hours and that was the end of the world. Things just couldn’t get any worse than that, it was inconvenience on a grand scale.

That was then, before we discovered the true meaning of inconvenience. Now most of us would gladly swop Covid 19 for a bit of wind and rain because the virus has brought us to a level of inconvenience, we hadn’t even thought possible.  

It’s not over yet and we won’t be really free of this virus until someone comes up with a vaccine. Even then, our new-found inconvenience may never completely leave us. So, what do we do? Do we learn to accept that, or do we try to change our circumstances? I reckon we should try to turn the odds more in our favour and I think I may have found a way of doing that.

If you talk to older people, even older than me, they will tell you of the warmer summers we had long ago. Summers that lasted longer and seasons that were more predictable and more defined. As a child I remember spending all day, every day, playing outside with my friends in good weather during the summer holidays. We only came inside to go to bed.

Those days have been replaced with severe storms, global warming and pandemics and that just didn’t happen by accident. It happened because we haven’t been paying attention to the Gods. I suspect they’re angry with us because we’ve been neglecting them, so they’re punishing us. They’re annoyed and it’s hard to blame them.

When was the last time we offered up a human sacrifice to the gods in this country? Cobh certainly hasn’t made any offerings during my lifetime and we need to rectify that if we expect to get them on side. Look at the evidence.

To the Aztecs, human sacrifice was a matter of survival. They believed the sun god Huitzilopochtli was waging a constant war against darkness, and if the darkness won, the world would end. To keep the sun moving across the sky and preserve their existence, the Aztecs had to feed Huitzilopochtli with human hearts and blood.

They also practiced a form of ritual cannibalism, but I propose that we skip that bit. I’m partial to a bit of meat but I draw the line at eating my neighbours.

In 2018 archaeologists working at the Templo Mayor excavation site in Mexico discovered proof of widespread human sacrifice among the Aztecs and found skull towers and skull racks. Prisoners and slaves were often used as human sacrifices and their skulls were hung on large poles on the outskirts of the town to ward off unwanted guests.

I suspect a few seaside towns here came close to using this tactic in recent times.

Some archaeologists believe that a game of ball would sometimes end with members of the losing team being sacrificed. Evidence for these sacrifices is mainly found in depictions of Maya art. Introducing that to the Premiership would raise the viewing figures.  

So, human sacrifice occupied a particularly important place in many cultures, because of the belief that they nourished the gods. Without them, the sun would cease to rise, and the world would end, so sacrificial victims earned a special, honoured place in the afterlife.

Closer to home, the skeleton of a man found buried in a ditch at Stonehenge has been interpreted by Jacqueline McKinley, an osteoarchaeologist, as a sacrificial victim. The man, who was 5 foot 10 inches and had a robust muscular build, was shot repeatedly with arrows. McKinley believes he was killed as part of a human sacrifice.

Women didn’t have it easy back in the day either. In Fiji, when a woman became a widow, she was strangled because a deceased husband was buried with his wife. In the case of great chiefs, their deaths simultaneously brought about the demise of their various wives. These women were then used as carpet for his grave.

The Irish druids had their own ways of pleasing the gods. Samhain was an important time for druids, a time of dread and anticipation. Days got shorter and nights got longer, a sign that nature’s decay was about to begin, and any crops left out after November 1st could be spoiled by the Fairies. Food was offered to the gods and the dead.

That makes complete sense. That’s why the weather was better, and we were all safer. The gods were happy and content so if we want to improve our circumstances, we must return to the old ways. Our first task is to place an ad in The Echo for a human sacrifice.

It will be a short-term position and pay and conditions won’t be great, but the successful applicant will be guaranteed an honoured place in the afterlife. Allegedly.

• 

Until recently, I had assumed all butlers were men. Not so apparently because according to the British Butler Institute (BBI), half of all trainee butlers are female, but in 2015 that figure was only 10 per cent.

Another interesting statistic is that roughly 70 per cent of the demand for butlers in the UK comes from non-British households, mostly Russians, Americans and those from the Middle East.

I grew up in a three-bed terraced house, so we didn’t have much need for a butler. I remember watching Hudson, the butler in Upstairs Downstairs many years ago. The kind of life he had didn’t inspire me to enter a life of service, but looking back, I think I may have lost out.

I never considered it as an occupation. No career guidance counsellor ever tried to steer me in that direction even though I’m sure there were many who suspected that was where I was headed. If I had known then what I know now though, things might have been different.

Butlers can expect to earn as much as £40,000 as a starting salary, with more experienced professionals receiving up to £150,000, along with the perks of free accommodation, meals and foreign travel. The highest-paid butler in the world, who works for a billionaire in Miami, reportedly earns £2.2 million per annum.

I could have done a good job for that kind of money and I could have been trusted with the silverware too. There are risks associated with allowing strangers into your home so it’s important to know who you are dealing with before trusting them with the family jewels.

There is a story told of a guy who worked as a butler for a wealthy family, but he was unhappy because he felt that his boss didn’t fully trust him. He approached his boss one day to hand in his notice and told him; “I am not going to serve you any longer as you don’t have any faith in me even though I have served you loyally for the past several years.”

The owner of the property denied that and insisted that he did indeed have faith in his servant and told him; “That is why I have given you all the keys of the house including the keys of the safe.”

The butler stuck to his guns though and told his boss that he was certain he didn’t trust him because he had tried to open the safe with each of the keys and none of them fit.

It’s hard to blame the boss in that case for being cagey. Not everyone who entered a life of domestic service did so for the right reasons and maybe he had heard the story of a butler called Archibald Hall. Hall was born in Glasgow in 1924 and was a petty criminal in his early years. Later, he changed his name to Ray Fontaine and became known as the Monster Butler or the Killer Butler.

As a young man, Hall was a con artist and a burglar and served his first prison sentence when he was just seventeen years old. During one lengthy sentence for theft he got rid of his strong Glasgow accent and studied social etiquette, elocution and antiques so he could fit in with the English aristocracy.

He was released from prison in 1977 and hooked up with an Irishwoman, Mary Coggle, a prostitute and barmaid also known as “Belfast Mary”. He got a job as a butler to Lady Margaret Hudson in Scotland and his plan was to steal her valuables but changed his mind when he discovered he liked his job and also liked his new boss.

Things turned sour though when a former cellmate was employed as a gamekeeper on the same estate. David Wright began stealing items from the house and threatened to blow the whistle on Hall’s past life. Hall could see trouble on the horizon so while they were out duck hunting one day, he took decisive action. He shot Wright in the back of the head and buried him in a shallow grave.

Hall was done with going straight after that, so he moved back to London and took a job as butler to Walter Scott-Elliot and his wife Dorothy and intended to rob them. Hall’s girlfriend, Mary Coggle, introduced him to a small-time crook, Michael Kitto, and he recruited him to help.

While showing Kitto, around the house they were disturbed by Mrs Scott-Elliot so the two men suffocated her with a pillow. They drugged her 82-year-old husband, put both of them in the boot of a car and set off for Scotland. They buried the dead woman by the side of a quiet road along the way while her husband was beaten to death with a spade.

Mary Coggle began wearing Mrs Scott-Elliot’s expensive clothes and jewellery and was drawing too much attention to herself. Hall considered her a liability, so she became victim number four and her body was dumped in a barn.

The two men headed for Hall’s family home in Cumbria and found his brother Donald, had been released from prison and was living there. Hall hated his brother and considered him a paedophile. He thought Donald was taking too much interest in Hall’s business so he and Kitto drowned him in the bath.

They were back on the road to Scotland again to dispose of another body but stopped at a hotel where the owner became suspicious of the two guests and called the police. The police found Donald Hall’s body in the boot of the car and the two men were arrested.

Hall confessed to the five murders and led police to the bodies. He was jailed for life and died in 2002 in Kingston Prison, Portsmouth.

• 

I was an accidental landlord once upon a time and I didn’t enjoy one miniute of it. I was forced into it because the house was costing me money while it was lying idle.

It was years ago, and I rented it out while I was trying to sell it. I had moved from the countryside a few years earlier to be closer to the town, but the market was slow, and the house wasn’t going anywhere.

I had some lovely tenants over the years but there was one who wasn’t easy to please. He was prone to complaining.

One day, he rang me with a serious problem. He was very upset because there was a smell of raw sewage coming from the toilet in the bathroom. He told me the house was stinking and proceeded to give me a lecture about the danger to his health from being exposed to this noxious gas. He was concerned that it could result in him being found dead in his bed.

He was quick to point out my responsibilities as a landlord. It was my duty to provide him with a safe environment and if I couldn’t do that, then he would be forced to leave and find alternative accommodation. I bit my tongue while I fought the urge to offer him some encouragement to go.

I couldn’t understand how this issue had developed so suddenly. In the first place, the ‘U’ bend in a toilet bowl is always full of water and that forms a seal to prevent any smell coming back through the system. Secondly, I had lived in this house with my family for over twenty-five years and I had never experienced that problem.

I told my irate tenant that I would get there as soon as I could. So, I dropped everything and headed off for the house. On the way there, I was running through all the possibilities in my head. I thought that maybe there was a burst pipe somewhere and I had visions of digging up half the property and creating a huge mess and a lot of expense.

I needn’t have worried.

I pulled up outside the house and the miniute I stepped out of the car I could see what the problem was. I met the tenant and advised him to close the windows and the smell would soon disappear. Then I brought him to the front door and pointed to the fields across the road where a tractor was pulling a large tanker behind it.

I explained to him that they were spreading slurry as fertiliser. I told him it was normal practice and they usually do it just before it rains so it disappears into the soil quickly and the smell doesn’t linger. If he had taken the time to do a little bit of investigation before grabbing his mobile phone to have a rant, he could have discovered that for himself.

Smells are part and parcel of country life, but rural life can be a challenge for some and sometimes even the farmers can have issues with odours.

A court in Germany, ruled that bad smells and farming go together. The ruling was made after neighbours complained about a farmer’s plans to extend his chicken hatches. The poultry’s poo, they argued would pollute their air.

But the court was having none of it. While stopping short of accusing the plaintiffs of muckraking, they argued that the countryside is the countryside and people there should be used to the smell of dung.

The judges said the plaintiffs were farmers too and had done their own share of muck shovelling in the past. They said bad smells are a fact of life and are something which inhabitants should be able to cope with.

Not all smells are bearable though and some landlords have discovered that the tenants themselves can often be the cause of the trouble.

One landlord had a problem with a tenant who hadn’t paid his rent for three months. He tried to evict the man, but the tenant dragged out the legal process for months, so it took time to get rid of him.

The property was eventually let out again, but the new tenants complained about a strange smell in the apartment. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t discover the source. He threw everything at the problem, but the smell remained.

It dragged on for months until the landlord noticed a slight discoloration on a wall. He poked a few holes through the drywall and was surprised to see maggots pouring out through the holes.

The previous tenant had placed packets of raw meat behind the walls throughout the apartment as a last act of defiance. As it rotted, it created the terrible stench.

I have no intention of ever becoming a landlord again. It’s a lot of trouble and it can be risky too as one landlord in the States found out.  He had a lucky escape after buying an investment property. It was a house with an upstairs suite and a basement suite.

His first applicant for the basement suite worked in construction and had wonderful references so he immediately offered him the suite but the next day, the tenant told him he wouldn’t be taking it because he decided to move closer to his children.

A few months later, while watching the news on TV, he saw a story about a man who had held his former girlfriend – the mother of his children- captive in a cabin in the woods for five days. She eventually escaped and ran for safety. The man who kidnapped her was the man he had offered the basement suite to.

Maybe I should go back and just have one more look in the attic!

• 

Weddings have been put on the long finger for the time being and many couples are currently dealing with that disappointment. They won’t find it easy to get a date in 2021 either because apart from the normal number of annual marriage ceremonies due to take place next year, there will also be the spill over from 2020 to contend with. Wedding planners will be busy.

There wasn’t much call for wedding planners when I got married in 1984 but things have moved on a lot since then. In those days, weddings were simple affairs. You just needed a priest for the ceremony, a hotel for the reception and an apartment in Majorca for the honeymoon. Everything else fell into place.

For my parents and that generation, weddings were even more basic. They had a church ceremony followed by a breakfast, which was literally a breakfast, then a train ride down to Youghal for the day.

The photographs of their special occasion were limited to a few black and white snaps of the happy couple standing in front of the church. When the day long honeymoon was over, life returned to normal and it was back to work with the lot of them.

Not much need for a wedding planner there either but now you can’t get married without one. So, what do they do exactly?

Apparently, they help with your budget, the wedding plan, get the best locations to match your wedding size, find top florists, photographers, caterers, bands, DJs in your price range and handle the invitations. Sounds good.

It’s a responsible job and I imagine they are the first people to get it in the neck if anything goes wrong on the day, but I can’t help wondering if it’s really necessary? Things always go wrong and it’s those mishaps that give us the laughs in later years.

We organised our own wedding and it was going to be hi-tech because we were having it recorded for posterity. My brother-in-law, Pat O’Rourke, had a video camera. He was a marine engineer and travelled the world in the course of his work and came across a new type of camera on his travels.

Calling it a camera doesn’t do it justice. It was a large machine that you carried on your shoulder like an anti-tank weapon. The battery alone was the same weight as an average baby and the tape cassette that went into it was the size of a regular book.

If you produced it in the modern world and pointed it at people, they would probably run for cover fearing a terrorist attack, but it was state of the art in those days.

Anyone under forty years old probably won’t know what I’m talking about, but these cameras recorded on tape cassettes which were then played on video cassette recording machines (VCRs) that were hooked up to the TV. It took all that machinery to do what can be done with a little mobile phone now.

VCR’s were also used to record programmes on the TV so you could watch them back later. You could set the machine to tape a programme while you were out, which was new and exciting. It wasn’t straightforward though, so it wasn’t unusual to come home and find that you recorded the wrong programme or maybe recorded nothing at all because you hit the wrong button or messed up the timer.

Anyway, Pat was familiar with this stuff and he wanted to record the wedding day for us. I seem to remember that he had a spot light hooked up to a large pole or stick to throw extra light on the proceedings in the church. In fairness to him, he worked hard, and the pressure was on. It wasn’t easy walking around all day with that camera hoisted on his shoulder, but he stuck with it.

We didn’t get to see the result of his efforts until we arrived home from our honeymoon. We were delighted with it and the quality was really good. He captured everything and it was nice to think it would be there for the kids and grandkids to look at in years to come.

The relatives naturally wanted to see this video too but not everyone had a video recorder so someone with a machine would host a viewing where a few people would gather around to watch it. Not everyone was keen though and I always felt sorry for the poor souls that were forced to sit through it.

I enjoyed seeing it too, but a couple of viewings was sufficient. Women on the other hand can watch these things over and over and never get enough. So, it was for one of these gatherings that my sister in law borrowed the tape. She held on to it for a while and we thought no more about it.

Some months later, my wife retrieved the tape to host one of her own cinematic gatherings. When everyone was seated around the TV, she hit the play button and that was when she got a surprise.

The video should have started with the bride getting ready to leave the house for the church, but that was replaced with the famous theme tune for ‘Match of the Day’. Then Jimmy Hill appeared on the screen which was strange because we were fairly certain that Jimmy wasn’t at the wedding.

She frantically searched the rest of the tape but sadly, there was no wedding footage only football. Another brother in law, Billy Brophy, had recorded over the wedding.

Maybe if there was such a thing as a wedding planner back in the day, they might have suggested making a copy of the tape and that alone would have been worth the fee.

• 

An ex- colleague of mine, Aidan O’Connell is a retired garda sergeant and a former member of the Cork City Garda Divisional Search Team. That’s a team made up of specially trained gardai who were brought together whenever a search was required. He told me this story.

In 2006, Robert Sheehy, a farmer from Tully, Buttevant, found what appeared to be a human skull in his field. He alerted the Gardai who launched an investigation and Aidan was instructed to assemble the search team.

Aidan gathered his 16 members, including Sgt. Michael Lyons from Kinsale, and they headed for Buttevant. They were taken to the middle of the field where the skull had been discovered. The initial theory was that a fox had possibly dug up the skull and dragged it across the field. But there was also another possibility.

There was an unsolved missing person case going back to 2002 when William O’ Brien from Buttevant had gone missing and had never been located. With that in mind, they spent all day Friday and Saturday searching the field and surrounding area but found nothing.

As they were finishing up for the day, late on Saturday evening, Aidan walked from an adjoining field back to where the skull had been located. He used the same pathway through the ditch that he had been using for the couple of days.

As he went through the gap, he spotted something on the ground. He picked it up and it appeared to be a human thigh bone, about two foot long. He called Mick Lyons and as they were examining the find, another member went into the ditch and found the matching thigh bone.

He instructed the other members to carry out a quick search of the immediate area but nothing else was found. His attention was drawn to a very large tree nearby and that got a cursory search, but it was thick with branches and leaves so they couldn’t see much.

Aidan wasn’t satisfied though and wanted the tree searched properly. Mick agreed that if he felt that strongly about it, they should do it. So, they sent for Inspector Pat McCarthy, the officer in charge of the search, because they wanted him to organise a hoist. Pat arrived, had one look up and the next thing he was climbing the tree.

After about five minutes, he came back down and sat on a branch. He pulled out his phone, and made a call; ‘Superintendent, I found him.’ 

In an article on July 5^th 2006, journalist, Niall O’ Connor, reported on the inquest at Cork Coroners Court and told how the partially mummified remains of a missing man were discovered 30 feet above the ground in the branches of a tree, four years after he went missing. William ‘Wills’ O’ Brien (46) died sometime in April 2002. The Coroner recorded a verdict of death ‘from a mode unknown’.

John Moloney from Buttevant in Cork told the Court he last saw Mr. O Brien on April 22nd 2002 as he walked across a field.

Inspector Pat McCarthy gave evidence of finding the body. He climbed the tree and noticed clothes and human remains and it appeared that William O Brien had hung himself by his cardigan. Pathologist Margaret Bolster told the court that she had received the remains of the man, which included the lower leg bones still inside a pair of boots. Dental records were used to identify him.

About two years later, Aidan came across a book in a Cork bookshop, ‘Searching, The Stories of Irelands Missing People’, by Valerie Cox. The first name in the Index was that of Wills O Brien. It was only then that he became aware of the background of Wills O Brien and the family left behind. The following is an extract:

While most seven-year-old girls are thinking about Barbie Dolls and endless other toys when discussing their lists or Santa Claus. The 2002 Christmas wish of Natalie O’ Brien in Charleville, Co Cork was for just one thing; ‘I want my daddy to come home’.

Wills O Brien’s wife Patricia, and little Natalie were distraught, not knowing what happened to their husband and father. A huge search in Buttevant and a story in RTEs Crimeline had produced no results. Natalie was to make her first Holy Communion and neither she nor Patricia knew whether the event would be witnessed by her proud father.

The strange thing about this story is that the day the remains were discovered, Aidan had passed through that same gap in the field several times and saw nothing. Upwards of ten Gardai had also been there and had looked up the same tree and hadn’t seen anything either.

He’s convinced the bone was not lying on that piece of pathway previously because he would have seen it, so his only conclusion is that it must have fallen from the tree while they were searching.

He still doesn’t understand why he was drawn to that tree or why he was so determined to have it searched. “I’m not particularly religious but I think there was an element of Divine Intervention in the finding of Wills O Brien that day. I’m happy to have played a small part in solving the mystery of his disappearance for his wife Patricia and his daughter Natalie.”

I have been in communication with Trish and Natalie while putting this piece together and I’ll leave the last word to Natalie; ‘Please tell Aidan I said thanks to Aidan and his colleagues for finding my dad and giving us some closure.’

• 

It feels like an eternity since the Government introduced us to the world of lockdown. Little did we think it would be still going on at this stage, and that news of some easing of the restrictions would be like a Lotto win. Any reprieve would be welcome now, but I’m not hopeful.

I’m not complaining either though because when I look around and see how some countries are dealing with the Corona Virus, I’m glad I’m here and not somewhere else. And I nearly wasn’t.

I was due to fly to Cyprus on March 14^th, but I checked with the Department of Foreign Affairs a few hours before my flight was due to take off and their advice was to sit tight. They said the situation was changing by the hour and while I would definitely be able to leave, they couldn’t say when I might return.

As I could be going from the frying pan into the fire, I took their advice and put my passport away again. As it turned out, they were spot on and that’s not the only thing they’ve got right.

I don’t have any political affiliations and I regularly have a pop at politicians. I have been critical of the HSE too in the past but that aside, I have been impressed with the way our people have handled the pandemic.

Dr. Tony Holohan has provided a calm reassurance and Simon Harris has put his shoulder to the wheel and has been working hard. I take my hat off to these guys. They seem to have a handle on it in so far as that’s possible.

There are people pointing to mistakes they have made in the past and there is justification for some of that but I’m talking about their performance during this pandemic solely. We have lost friends and loved ones and that’s tragic, but it could have been so much worse.

Just look across the Atlantic. The leadership from the White House is anything but clear or assured. President Trump is a divisive character at the best of times and now large crowds have taken to the streets, demanding that restrictions be lifted. The same restrictions that were put in place for their benefit and to keep them alive.

Closer to home, the UK seems to have been a bit slow getting out of the traps too. The government there is coming in for a lot of stick for initially going with the herd immunity plan.

So, I’m more positive about how we’re doing here and I’m proud of the way the public has responded to the lockdown. The vast majority have answered the call for isolation, social distancing and cocooning and they’ve done it with the good humour and tolerance we’re noted for. There have been some lapses but by and large, people have acted responsibly.

In situations like this, common sense is an extremely useful tool to have in the bag and fortunately for us, it’s a quality the Irish have in spades. We just need to keep the flag flying for another bit.

While most of us are complying with the recommendations, some are struggling. All we’ve been asked to do since this Corona Virus came to visit, is to stay at home and watch TV but a minority are struggling with it.

Easter weekend was tricky. The weather was good and some with second homes at the seaside wanted to go there but the locals had other ideas and made their feelings known. Gardai blocked the M50 but a few went anyway. It created additional stress we can do without.

The current climate is difficult enough without us turning on each other. We’ve done well so far but we need to stick with the programme.

The plan was to flatten the curve and ease the flow of patients into our hospitals so staff would be better equipped to deal with the rush when it came. The best way to achieve that we were told, was to keep apart. It worked. We have paid a significant price and we’re not out of the woods yet but we’re getting there.

Some have had it tougher than others. We’ve heard heart breaking stories of loved ones dying alone, while family members and friends were unable to spend their final moments with them or attend the funerals. That will leave its mark on us forever.

Our health care workers have been playing a stormer too fighting this illness on the front line every day. Not only the medical staff but the cleaners, porters and maintenance staff have all been risking their health. That should never be forgotten.

They deserve our respect and if we have to put up with a little inconvenience to help them, then so be it.

There has been some discussion around allowing the pubs and restaurants to open while observing current restrictions – arranging the seating in such a way as to keep the required distance between customers. Anything that gets us out for a pint again is worth consideration, but we need to be sensible.

It would be difficult for a publican to police social distancing in those circumstances. Apart from that, it may not even be practical from a financial perspective for a publican to open his doors if his income is going to be cut by 50% before he even pulls a pint.

Toilet facilities could be a problem too as many of these are no bigger than old phone boxes. Enforcing the rules of social distancing might be easy to do with compliant customers but telling the guy who is three sheets to the wind to stop slobbering in your ear would definitely be challenging.

We still have a way to go, so just hang in there.

• 

My 62 years on this planet have taught me that relationships within families can often be complicated. Not everyone is living the dream. In the words of the Charlie Rich song, ‘No one knows what goes on behind closed doors.’

What might appear to be domestic bliss to a casual observer can sometimes be completely different. There is an advertising campaign underway currently and it encourages abuse victims to seek help. There is a good reason for that.

According to the United Nations, reports of domestic violence have surged globally in the wake of massive lockdowns imposed to contain the spread of Covid-19. So much so that the UN Secretary General, Antonio Guterres has urged governments to include the protection of women in their response to the pandemic.

Thankfully, that’s an alien world to most of us but violence is a factor in many relationships and there are victims suffering in silence while working hard to hide the truth from family and friends. Creating cover stories for the black eye or the swollen lip.

It’s not always about physical violence either though, but it is always about control. It is sinister in whatever shape it comes.

We occasionally hear details of cases when they come before the courts and get an insight into the physical and mental torture that can be inflicted on victims. We heard recently about the first successful prosecution for coercive control in this country which resulted in the accused being sent to prison.

The culprit in that case pleaded guilty to bombarding his girlfriend with 5,757 phone calls over a three-month period. He admitted being abusive to his partner including exercising coercive control, harassment and making threats to damage property.

He became so obsessed with her that he forced her to take her phone everywhere with her, so he could keep track of her. He even called her on Facetime and made her scan her location, to prove she was exactly where she said she was.

On one occasion he entered the pub where she was socialising and pulled her out of the premises by the collar of her jumper and gave her a severe beating, including several punches to the head. He also burnt her clothes and broke her hair straighteners to prevent her from going out. He also threatened to kill her.

Cormac O’Keeffe gave an account of this case in The Irish Examiner, which was the first prosecution for this offence that came into law a year ago.

Coercive control is the way an abusive person gains and maintains power and control over another person by subjecting them to psychological, physical, sexual, emotional or financial abuse, regardless of gender or sexuality. It is a deeply dangerous and personal crime against the person usually committed over a prolonged period.

The court heard that the mother of three was fearful for her safety. In one phone call, the offender was heard screaming at his partner: “I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you stone dead. I’ll cut your throat out. I’ll get you. Mark my words, I’ll get you tomorrow night.”

It’s a disturbing story but unfortunately, it’s not unusual in the world of domestic violence.

Twenty years ago, I was approached by a lady who was concerned about a family member. She told me her sister was living in fear of her husband and she was looking for some advice. I arranged for the lady concerned to meet me in the garda station and she told me her story which was quite shocking.

She had been living in a bad situation for years, but this was the first time she had spoken about it to somebody other than her family. She was desperate. This guy was very controlling, and she had absolutely no life of her own. He was a bully and was in complete control of her physically and mentally.

She was only allowed out of the house for brief periods to do some shopping and if she failed to return on time, she was punished. She had no friends of her own and only socialised when they were out together. Even then, she had to be careful who she spoke to because he could get jealous without any reason and that would cause problems for her later.

We spoke for a long time and the account of her circumstances was hard to digest. We met a second time in the station, and it was obvious that she was in a distressed state. She told me that her tormentor had followed her when he discovered she was going to the garda station.

He had parked his car across the road to intimidate his wife, so I went out and introduced myself. I advised him that I was aware of the situation and told him his wife would be seeking the protection of the court.

I also suggested that in the meantime, it would be in his interest not to interfere with her again as the judge would be informed of every incident. I also advised him, in layman’s language that he would clearly understand, to leave the area.

I accompanied her to the court while she got her Barring Order. It wasn’t contested because he failed to show up. That was no surprise because abusers are often weak individuals who don’t like being called out. I never saw him again.

She went on to have the life she deserved and was finally able to leave the house to meet family and friends without fearing the consequences.

I’m telling this story to illustrate that there is a way out. There is protection for victims once they find the courage to take the first step. This new piece of legislation adds extra protection and hopefully it will encourage others to come forward.

• 

Covid 19 has been doing a pretty good job of keeping most of us housebound and seated in front of the TV. I think I’ve watched more television in the last few weeks than I normally would over the course of a year.

I’ve noticed too that with all the channels available to us, there are times when I struggle to find something decent to watch. I did come across two shows though that I found interesting.

The first one was ‘The Guards: Inside the K’. It’s a behind the scenes look at what gardai face on a daily basis in the K District in Dublin which covers Blanchardstown, Finglas and Cabra. I wasn’t expecting much to be honest when I tuned in first, but I was pleasantly surprised.

It’s a very well-made documentary series. I’ve seen a few of the episodes so far and it gives a very accurate account on what life is like for gardai in the big smoke. It’s changed a lot from when I was stationed there in the early eighties. Even though I spent thirty-five years in that organisation, I was taken aback at some of the scenes.

It’s a tougher area to police now and certainly more violent than it was in my day. It surprised me too how young the members are but maybe that’s just me getting older. I’ve only been retired for the last five years but I know I wouldn’t be able for that job now. It’s a young person’s game so I’m happy to leave it to them while I observe from the comfort of my recliner.

The second programme that caught my eye was ‘Reared by the village’. In this show, they take troubled teenagers from an urban environment and introduce them to life in the countryside where community is at the heart of everything.

The episode I saw involved a teenager from Tallaght who was brought to a small farm in Laois. The 14 year-old normally lives in a two bedroomed apartment with his mother and his three younger siblings in an area blighted by drug dealing, anti-social behaviour and joyriding. Some of his friends are already involved with the gardai.

The two places are worlds apart, so he was understandably nervous about leaving his familiar territory. Before he left, he was asked by his buddy what he thought it was going to be like down in the country? He said he expected it to be full of pigs and muddy roads.

He was surprised to discover that it wasn’t like that at all and he was also surprised at the amount of freedom the local youngsters had and how they could, within reason, come and go as they pleased. That amount of leeway would be very risky for a youngster from Dublin’s inner city.

Allowing a young teenager to wander the streets in the heart of Dublin unsupervised would be a recipe for disaster. There are too many temptations. Lots of opportunities for kids to go down the wrong path and fall in with the wrong crowd. So, it’s very challenging for parents raising children in a large urban environment like that.

The programme follows the progress of these kids as they try to get back on track and improve the relationship they have with their parents. I’m not sure whether it works or not, but it certainly had an impact on this young fella because he ended up in tears when it was time to return home.

The thing that grabbed my attention though was his visit to the nearby garda station where he was brought to meet the local sergeant. They were chatting away, but you could see the young lad was holding back and he was slow to engage. He told the sergeant he would never talk to the guards in Dublin because they were the enemy. I thought that was very sad.

He’s not alone. Many children, especially in urban areas, develop an anti-police mentality at a young age without knowing why. There are reasons for this and the garda school’s programme was one tool developed to combat it. It set out a plan for regular, structured visits to the primary schools by trained gardai.

Engagement between young people and the gardai is crucial and the primary schools provide an ideal place to start. I know from experience that the programme works. I actively promoted it for many years in Cork and we saw the benefits of it until it fell victim to the cutbacks. That needs to be addressed.

The title of the programme ‘Reared by the village’ also reminded me of my own childhood. I often left the house early in the morning to meet my friends and didn’t come home again until it was time to eat. Sometimes I even forgot about food even though you wouldn’t believe that if you saw me now.

My parents didn’t worry about me either because I never strayed too far, and they always knew who I was with. They had a secret weapon too – the community. There were always plenty of eyes looking out for us. My father told me when I was very small that no matter where I went or what I did, there would always be somebody watching. He was right of course.

We were raised by the entire community who checked us if we stepped out of line and we never questioned that authority. If you forgot your manners, you would be quickly reminded by the shopkeeper, a neighbour, the postman or anyone else within earshot.

Times have changed. It would be a brave soul who would dare to correct an unruly child these days. No wonder the young lad on the programme was crying. He has seen where we’re headed.